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ETYMOLOGY.
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RELATIONS.
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AFFILIATIONS.
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ART.
[ X ] [ X ] by XXX
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ABOUT.
It was merely a dare, nothing to worry himself over. Wander into the Scarred Wasteland, get as close to the Wyrmwound as his body would allow, and scurry back to his home. Truly, Pulse was either the bravest of his siblings...or the most foolish. As he flew into the distance, several of his clanmates and a sibling or two snickered, cracking jokes about his disposition and just how much it would set him back in the journey. A particularly doubtful Pearlcatcher scoffed, turning to her mate with animosity within her pale eyes.
“That coward. Do you truly believe that he will do such a thing!? Nobody in this horde of mongrels would even consider an act of idiocy like this! He’ll probably just turn tail halfway through the place and pretend the disease he inevitably gets is as horrible as the...the..whatever’s in that place! I’ve never been, because what dignified dragon would willingly lead themselves to their putrid, certain doom!” The Skydancer simply rolled his eyes and turned to head back to the center of their lair, speaking as quietly as possible. “Sylvia, please. We’ve no reason to worry about him...besides, it’s rather late. We need to rest.” Reluctantly, she followed her lover, muttering as he tuned out the complaining.
Her doubts were not based entirely in stereotypes, nor were they because of a hatred of the male in particular. Pulse was a dragon repulsed by social situations; he did not hate anybody, but found conversation unnecessary to his survival. Others were not understood properly, and as such, he remained content with hunting, battling, and journaling, all on his own. Ostracized though he was, he was polite when facing these remarks, and simply apologized for not living up to their skewed standards. Without listening to many others, he continued through life, using their skepticism and jabs at his character as fuel for his thoughts. This was the reason for his excursion to the lands of the Plaguebringer- to see the sights and write down notable things.
As he landed at the border of the Scarred Wasteland, already reeling from the stench of the place, Pulse took note of his surroundings. For as far as the eye could see, there was absolutely nothing around- nothing truly living, that is- and a repulsive miasma hung about the land. Taking care to avoid the tendrils attempting to grasp at his legs, the Imperial trudged through the area, flinching at the sight of the bones. Were they of the native life, or...other dragons…? He shook his head at the thought- of course they were, but he could mourn their unfortunate demises at a later point in time. His goal was approaching, and even if the swarms of others creatures peering at him from the shadows and destruction unnerved him, tempted him to consider abandoning the admittedly terrible idea. But, alas, confidence urged him forward.
To his surprise, the Wyrmwound didn’t exactly smell too much worse than the rest of the land; it was absolutely repulsive, yes, and it put him off from the sheer amount of stories about the horrors wrought from the liquid pandemics, but besides the fact that it was full of disease that would likely cripple a dragon beyond repair if they ever got any of the liquid inside of it on their scales, it seemed like...well, an extremely strange and foreboding lake. Eyeing the lairs nearby (and opting to ignore the curious, observing from a safe distance), he took his first step towards the edge. Then another, and soon, he was leaning over the side, claws planted firmly into the barren earth below him. ‘I only have to hold myself here for a few seconds,’ Pulse thought, ‘and then I can get out of here.’
How wrong could he have been? How terribly, terribly wrong?
After peering into the depths of the cauldron and shivering from the thought of the horrors that could be unleashed unto all of dragonkind by them, the Imperial stepped away to retrieve a journal from the satchel at his side, scribbling down information and lazily sketching the area to provide evidence for the journey, not noticing one notch of his antler becoming lodged within one of the quote-unquote ‘trees’ leaning over the Wyrmwound’s pulsing surface. Securing the book back where it belonged, he began to prepare for the flight back home, until several curious dragons decided it would be a good plan to loot his few belongings. The Fae, beginning the onslaught, utilized her size to toss a tiny clawful of sand into pale eyes, forcing Pulse to close them as he attempted to rub it away.
“Excuse me, what are you-” The feeling of a Spiral curling up and stealing the bag as it, well, spiralled away, froze him in the middle of his thoughts- and just as the sand had finally left his vision, a young Wildclaw clawed at hisshoulder, causing a loss of balance as he attempted to decipher his location. Unfortunately for him, taking a step backwards was the worst mistake he could make, as a hind leg found itself deep within the fluid, and however desperately he dug into the earth, he’d never been the best with liquid- seeing as most of it was frozen solid at home. The trio of thieves seemed appalled at the turn of events, and one after the next, they turned and ran from the scene.
It was the last thing Pulse saw before he slipped, once and for all, into the disease-ridden abyss.
Instinctively, he closed his eyes, though he refused to gasp for breath as the plague seeped into every spot on his body- at first, nothing felt quite so bad, rather, it was simply unsettling- until the adverse effects of swimming in concentrated viruses and bacteria began to manifest. Oh, yes, the mutations; painful, altering his genetic structure to create pitch-black blood that attempted to create a boundary over his injuries, causing his wings and antlers to mutate, and simultaneously causing the growth and decay of his entire being. Pulse began to struggle, not just out of the desire of freedom from the toxic prison, but from the sheer pain of being destroyed and rebuilt with no rest.
Eventually, one obsidian claw found itself planted firmly at the edge, and another soon followed; with one last push of strength, the dragon dragged himself onto the land nearing the pool, taking a breath, he stood up on his legs, which hadn’t been changed too much. They felt...off, to him. Like they weren’t even his to use- nearly immune to the plague ravaging the rest of his body, they were coated in a rough layer of darkened scales. It would take some getting used to, but surviving the Wyrmwound itself was a miracle, which would make it easier...right?
No. Something, something about the whole situation, set off alarms within his mind. Nothing about this was a blessing. If he were to go back to the lair of his ‘family’, they would not realize it was him, for Pulse had been a bright being, with stunning wings holding the color of the sunrise. It wasn’t as if he cared too much about what they thought of him, but it was where he had lived before, and those wings were admired from a safe distance, just as the dragon they belonged to was. Now, they were shriveled, and a surprisingly gentle maroon- a color only fitting for the plagued lands, wasn’t it?
Shaking off the remnants of the liquid simmering in the nearby crater, he started to walk away, There was no use in attempting to befriend any of the locals- or anybody, for that matter- seeing as they’d all see him as a freak of, ironically, nature. And it wasn’t like he liked anybody he thought he knew at all, just how they despised him at points; it was a polite toleration of their presences, if anything. As he continued to wander, stopping on occasion to stock up on food and battle the occasional scavengers who dared to try and steal away what little he had left- with him the victor every time, stealing away their gains instead to cover up some of his body in bits and pieces of armor and adorning others with jewelry.
A mere week later, just as he’d begun to settle into a short rest, the sound of fallen leaves crackling under the claws of a dragon became clear, and Pulse stood up, with the satisfying sound of joints gently cracking greeting him. The familiar silhouette of a Spiral came into view, but it quickly retreated to the edge of a cliff face, with hushed whispers coming from the distance. “Lux, Sol, that Imperial that fell- what color were his scales again? Because there’s an Imperial right there with no stuff and I’m findin’ it suspicious.”
Making his approach towards the troupe, the voices of the smaller dragons quickly became audible, if not a little bit muffled by the amount of decaying flora scattered about. “I wanna say they were, like, orange n’ red? Might’a been some black, there, too. All I know is that as soon as he fell in, it was time to ditch with what we got. What’d we get again?” “Sol, we got a book and some jewels. Nothin’ much. But, are you sayin’ he survived, Bri?” “Yeah, I think he did. I saw the same ice-eyes.” Their conversation, though quiet, told the somewhat confused dragon enough.
They’d accidentally thrown him inside, and where death gave him life, this life will give them the death they so rightfully deserve. If they stole for the sake of others, perhaps he could find a reason to ignore them, if only out of a warped sense of pity and respect. But, no, he could see the masses of riches within the cavern nearby- piles of gold and silk, in pristine condition- and it became clear to him that they were, to put it politely, selfish little-
“Oi, he’s here! Get him before he gets us!” Sol called out, the tiny dragon waving his frills in distress, before moving towards Pulse- he smiled, teeth glinting in the setting sun, before raising a claw to strike down the Fae before she could change her course. Her golden body made a soft ‘thump’ noise as it hit the ground, and it seemed to send the other two into shock- the Wildclaw, presumably Lux, bared her teeth, and with a deafening screech, she lunged forward, mercilessly attacking his shoulder again and again. Was she trying to speak? Make him feel guilty for shrugging off the efforts of her sworn partner? Honestly, it was so terribly hopeless. After all, a trainer warrior against the efforts of three scavengers- a curbstomp, if you were to ask him. As crimson soon coated maroon, he lashed out with his tail, knocking Lux down with the force of a Snapper’s jaw- and, for good measure and a quick finish, his claw moved to slice the scales surrounding her throat, leaving her unable to cry out for help, but with enough energy for her to take hold of Sol and attempt to get up. It was, at the least, admirable.
“You...what the heck are you?” The final opponent, and presumably, leader, approached with curiosity and fear- anxiously curling around a tree limb barely hanging onto the cliff’s edge, she looked at Pulse, attempting to find anything notable other than the obvious. He’d changed- still powerful, but far less forgiving than the Imperial she’d accidentally tripped into the Wyrmwound. And, in return, he eyed her with a harsh regard- Bri could be anything she dreamed of being, for she appeared more in-tune with the world than the average Spiral, but she became a worthless piece of garbage destined to fall as a scoundrel. Probably.
“...Leave.” The monster’s growl was difficult to understand, but the command within was not- with a solemn nod and apologies stuttered out to her allies, she began to glide away, stopping by the makeshift lair to gather as many things as she could. Just as he was about to turn away, though, her golden eyes were upon him once more, and a worn-out book landed at his feet. “May as well give this back, at least. I’d recommend heading east, honestly. Maybe you can give a few others a scare or whatever.”
Once she left, the journal was tossed into the ravine below, for Pulse was not some sentimental dragon anymore. He’d changed. He’d matured.
As he scoured the lands of Sornieth for any way of keeping a stable income, just in case he happened to desire anything materialistic (or not), he’d stumbled upon a moderately sized clan of the Lightweaver’s children. They’d seen use for a mercenary, if only in anticipation of potential attacks, but their contract was lenient. He would only stay if there was a predicted possibility of battle, but otherwise, he could easily take jobs from others, so long as they know that his long-term alliances are with them.
And, so, he roams.
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TRIVIA.
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